


Wild Horses

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:17:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8189608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Just a meandering set of slices of their life together.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/gifts).



> ***WARNINGS: background character with suicidal ideation, dysmorphia, feeling suicidal, main characters talk about it. Arthur had a chaotic childhood. 
> 
> For you, Glim, I know lots of them are, but this is definitely your it's your prompt and your ideas about them and you got me thinking about them, and about books, and about them and books.

  


THE BOOKSHOP

  


“We could go on a canal boat holiday, and just sort of float along, quoting Shakespeare. Oxford to Stratford, see some plays, drink wine, bob along in the sunshine,” Arthur says.

  
  


Lance, browsing the ‘local history’ section in Oxfam, jumps. Arthur had gone to get cash, and Lance was enthralled by a book that looks to be about the history of the building they live in. Arthur leans, resting his chin on Lance’s shoulder.

  
  


“Hey, that’s my flat,” he says.

  
  


“I’m not going on a canal boat, I get seasick,” Lance says. “Did you get money?”

  
  


“Mm. I don’t want that book anymore, though,” Arthur says. “Have you found anything?”

  
  


“Just this. It really is our building, isn’t it?”

  
  


“Yeah. Our flat, but old,” Arthur says, not at all interested.

  
  


He wanders off again. Lance flicks through the book, and tucks it under his arm, running his finger over the shelf, the spines’ texture telling him stories. He pulls down a thin volume about the canal, then decides not to encourage and puts it back, moving on to ‘sociology’ section. He adds two books on gender studies and ‘transgender in literature’ which look interesting. By the time he makes it to fiction, where, as expected, Arthur is camped out in a chair reading, he’s got a stack. Arthur has four novels by his chair, and he looks up at Lance and smiles. Lance leaves his pile next to Arthur then looks over the fiction, pulling out a Bainbridge and a Sarah Waters, flicking through a Terry Pratchett.

  
  


“We have them all,” Arthur says, not looking up from his reading.

  
  


“How did you know? This is a new cover,” Lance says. “It’s Spanish.”

  
  


“I have a Terry Pratchett sensor when it comes to you. You already have a million covers, and two Spanish versions of that.”

  
  


Lance puts it back, because that’s true. He takes a picture of the cover, though. He picks out a couple of crime novels for Arthur, and a Kurt Vonnegut they’ll probably both read, then he kneels to go through his piles and put some back.

  
  


“Look,” Arthur says, turning his book.

  
  


It’s inserts, photos of someone on a canal boat. The book must be some kind of biography or something. Lance looks at the pictures, of the freckled smiling person, the boat, the sunspots. Arthur turns the page for him and then turns a huge clump, to some up to date, colour ones. The freckled person is older, still leaning on a boat, still grinning in the sunshine.

  
  


“Boats,” Lance says.

  
  


“Not the sea,” Arthur says. “Apparently it won’t make you sick. It’s so slow, so idle. Idyllic. The locks, the little cabin, the bed that folds out. A little galley, sitting on the roof to eat dinner, at the tiller. We’ll watch Great Canal Journeys tonight.”

  
  


“If you like,” Lance says, getting up into a crouch, holding Arthur’s chair, nudging Arthur’s cheek, kissing Arthur. “Whatever you want.”

  
  


“Mm,” Arthur agrees, smiling. “I think I’ll get this one, this is an interesting person. Do you want to go downstairs? Look at music and religion, children’s books?”

  
  


“Sounds fascinating. I’m not quite done up here, though, I still have self-help to look through,” Lance says.

  
  


“There’s poetry downstairs,” Arthur says.

  
  


“I’ll get to it.”

  
  


“I don’t want to go on my own,” Arthur grumbles, tugging Lance’s shirt.

  
  


Lance gathers his stack of books, puts the ones he doesn’t want back in their place, and then follows Arthur downstairs. It’s not like he reads self-help books, anyway. Arthur heads for the sheet music and scores, humming to himself as he flicks through. Lance watches him for a while, then leaves his books with Arthur and wanders over to the poetry, finger over the spines again. Arthur’s like Lance’s axis, in bookshops. Arthur’s a still browsers, camping out in one place and looking through thoroughly in his areas of interest. Lance is a restless browser, trying to see every book, touch every spine. Moving around Arthur; his centre.

  
  


He flits to the poetry, scanning the spines, locating drama and plays, and Shakespeare, looking for nice editions. He pulls out an old copy of Ben Jonson, the gold lettering enticing him, the thick crackling pages. It’s dusty, and makes him sneeze a few times, and the print’s too small to read. Arthur appears with glasses and a handkerchief, the former Lance’s, the latter his own. Lance accepts both, using the handkerchief to brush the dust off the book. It makes him sneeze again.

  
  


“Bless you,” Arthur says. “That is not the use I was thinking of, for my handkerchief.”

  
  


“Mm,” Lance says. “Oh, here it is. So famous, it still gets me, though. Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine. Or leave a kiss but in a cup, and I’ll not look for wine.”

  
  


“Uh-huh,” Arthur says. “Poetry. Yep. That rhymes.”

  
  


Lance elbows him gently, laughing, turning to kiss him again, then holds his face, cupped in his hands, and looks into his eyes. Blue, bright.

  
  


“But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine,” he murmurs.

  
  


“Sounds dirty,” Arthur says. “Nectar? Lance, you’re weird. I’m gonna leave you to your poems.”

  
  


Lance laughs again, but lets him go. He flicks to the other ‘Song to Cecelia’ ( _ Time will not be ours forever;/ He at length our good will sever./ Spend not then his gifts in vain./ Suns that set may rise again,/ But if we lose this light,/ 'Tis with us perpetual night _ ), then finds ‘His Excuse For Loving’ ( _ Let it not your wonder move… She shall make the old man young,/ Keep the middle age at stay,/ And let nothing hide decay,/ Till she be the reason why/ All the world for love may die _ ). Then his favourite: ‘So Breaks the Sun’. It makes him think of Arthur.  _ So breaks the sun earth's rugged chains,/ Wherein rude winter bound her veins;/ So grows both stream and source of price,/ _

_ That lately fettered were with ice _ . Sun, warmth, thawing. Arthur. Lance looks over at him, runs his fingers over the gold etched letters of the cover, then tucks the book under his arm.

  
  


Sylvie Plath, Maya Angelou, William Blake, Emily Dickinson, Katherine Philips, a collection with Trace Peterson, Lance gathers them all to him and it aches to part with some. He already has so much Dickinson, and Blake. Plath isn’t his favourite. He keeps the other three, though. It’s rare to find them and the collection is all gathered from queer poets. Lance reads Katherine Philips, sitting on the floor and finding his favourites. Finding his favour _ ite _ . ‘To My Dearest Lucasia’.  _ By wonder and by prodigy/ To the dull angry world let’s prove/ There’s a Religion in our Love.  _ Lance loves poetry, loves the words and intensity and drama of it. He rests his elbow on the bookcase and sighs.

  
  


_ Divided joyes are tedious found, _

_ And griefs united easier grow : _

_ We are our selves but by rebound, _

_ And all our Titles shuffled so, _

_ Both Princes, and both Subjects too. _

  
  


“Lancelot, you’re getting all dusty,” Arthur says, looking down at him with hands on hips.

  
  


Lance gets up and gives his new pile of books into Arthur’s arms, going back to Early Modern drama. He finds a nice copy of ‘The Spanish Tragedy’ and gives Arthur that, too, then moves on to ‘religion’. He’s not really religious, at all, so this section goes by fast, then he joins Arthur in the music bit. Arthur’s still looking through sheets and things, and has stacks of books all around him. Lance looks through the biographies, then sorts what they’ve got, putting some back. Arthur crouches beside him after a while.

  
  


“Ready?” he asks, looking at Lance’s piles.

  
  


“I have to decide about these,” Lance says.

  
  


“Get them,” Arthur says, standing, stretching with a yawn. “I’m bored, and hungry, and you’ll take forever so just buy the lot. My treat, today.”

  
  


Lance gathers everything up, pleased, and heads for the stairs. Arthur follows with what Lance couldn’t carry. They emerge with four bags, into the sunshine. It’s like breaking the boundaries between worlds. Different universes. Different realities. Arthur links their arms and steers them toward Buongiorno e Buonasera.

  
  


“Good, I can get nice coffee,” Lance says. “Pizza?”

  
  


“Mm,” Arthur agrees. “You’re still wearing your glasses.”

  
  


Lance doesn’t bother to take them off. He’s going to need them to read the menu, afterall. Where he’s a bit haphazard in bookshops, he likes to know all the information in coffee shops. Arthur just gets an Americano wherever he goes, and pizza if he can manage it. Arthur likes pizza. It’s not that Lance doesn’t, it’s just that he doesn’t have the same fervor and happiness about it as Arthur. He likes watching though, Arthur’s eyes lighting up, his joy at the taste, enthusiasm making him offer Lance bites to try.

  
  


It’s busy, but not as busy as it usually is: they get a table, by the window. Arthur sits while Lance goes to read every item on the menu, including descriptions, before ordering what he usually orders here- espresso and margherita pizza. He gets Arthur something with plenty of meat and an Americano, and a pink lemonade on a whim. Arthur gets excited about the bottle and kisses Lance, already twisting off the cap. The second kiss tastes fizzy, pink, lemony-bright. Lance laughs, stroking Arthur’s cheek as he pulls away.

  
  


“You need a shave,” Arthur says.

  
  


Their pizza takes a while. They pass the lemonade back and forth and look over their books, showing each other the things they chose. Arthur hums some of the music for Lancelot, and Lancelot tries to read Arthur poetry. Arthur’s not a poetic person, though. He just nods, eyes wandering for other entertainment. Lance pulls out the Terry Pratchett he snuck in and shows it to Arthur to get his attention back. Arthur snorts, taking the book and flipping it open, flicking through, then examining the cover.

  
  


“Fair enough, actually,” Arthur says. “That’s spectacular. What’s the language?”

  
  


“Hungarian,” Lance says. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  
  


“Looks like he’s being electrocuted. Who is that meant to be?”

  
  


“Adam? I guess? I dunno. Good Omens is the best.”

  
  


“I like the French one with the weird monster,” Arthur says.

  
  


“You love dragons,” Lance says, putting the book back.

  
  


Their pizza comes then, and conversation is mostly Arthur telling Lance to try his pizza. Lance has to defend his own assiduously, or he’ll get nothing to eat. He lets Arthur have some, but not all. He finishes first, and gets up to get Arthur something sweet, and another espresso. Arthur is busy with pizza and doesn’t really notice until Lance comes back with it.

  
  


“Oh, I love you,” Arthur says, grinning. “Truly madly deeply.”

  
  


“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,” Lance begins.

  
  


“Uh, no, no poetry,” Arthur says, cutting him off.

  
  


“Then I shall be mute,” Lance says.

  
  


Arthur smiles, laughing in that silent way he has sometimes. All of it in his eyes and smile, nothing out loud. Lance reaches over to touch his hand, then leans back, drinking his espresso.

  


***

BLANKETS AND SHEETS

  


“Where does one even buy such a thing, Lance? Don't be ridiculous,” Arthur says.

  
  


He's late home from work, still in his shirt, his briefcase open on the table to disgorge more work. Lance sets a plate in front of him, kept warm in the oven, and pushes his shoulder until he sits. Lance kisses the blond hair, gives him a half squeeze half hug, and goes back to his place on the other side of the table, with his tea and his notebook.

  
  


“We need blankets,” Lance says. “It's getting cold, and we've nothing woolly and red to throw over the back of the sofa. What about when you have a cold and want to camp out on the sofa, but don't want to go drag your duvet in? And we need a nice red and purple-ish one for the bedroom, something cozy and wintery. Nice autumnal oranges and browns for the living-room, I was thinking. We also need sheets. Merlin took three more last time he was here.”

  
  


“What does he do to them?” Arthur mutters, taking a mouthful of food between looking at the papers he's grading. “This is terrible. Why did I set this question? Who would ever want to read and undergrad response to this, Lance?”

  
  


“I don't know what the question is, but they've got one of the yellow sheets so no taking marks for dyslexic mistakes.”

  
  


“No, not the spelling, the concept is terrible. They've just not understood. Never mind. Sheets and blankets, fine, where are we going?”

  
  


“Maybe some candles, too.”

  
  


“To set fire to our autumnal blanket nest,” Arthur grumbles.

  
  


“Dreams? There's one out by Toys R Us and Aldi and that lot, I think. Or we could go to Ikea! Oh, love, let's do that.”

  
  


“No. Lance, I need to give my class a couple of essays, and I have them as PDFs, but the quality's crap so the Natural Reader text to speech thing doesn't work on them,” Arthur says, putting aside the essays and focusing on his meal. “Any ideas?”

  
  


“Other than typing them all out?”

  
  


“Part of it is about seeing the layout, they're original publication things, small magazines, Modernists,” Arthur says, waving a hand to brush over the details.

  
  


“Well, I still say type them out. Send them our way, we offer a service for translating media into tts compatible media. Usually the students use it, but it'd be great if you guys started taking it up. If you all made your courses properly accessible, we wouldn't be so overburdened,” Lance says. “It's so daft, to not make the little changes that save time, money, resources, emotional resources. Like putting up notes on the moodle before lectures, or adding bloody subtitles, or offering tts compatible resources. Little things. Making sure your classroom is- Did you know, I had a woman come to me today to complain that she couldn't get to her classroom? The lifts were out, again, and there was no way to get her chair up the stairs, and she wasn't up for walking it.”

  
  


He glances at Arthur, who's watching him with a weird expression. Part unimpressed, I've-heard-it-before, glazed, but also part fond, respectful, impressed. Arthur's such a contradiction. Only he could have such an expression. Lance smiles and Arthur smiles back, huffing out a small laugh and shrugging, fondness chasing the rest away.

  
  


“I agree with you,” Arthur says, taking another mouthful of pasta. “This is nice, by the way. If I bring the PDFs to reception and mark them for your attention, would that work? Or do I need to fill out forms and stuff, to use the service?”

  
  


“Come for lunch tomorrow, and I'll set you up,” Lance says.

  
  


“I'm not going to Ikea. We can go to Dreams on Friday, on the way to your Mum's for dinner. I have no teaching hours Friday, this semester, so we can go a bit early.”

  
  


“Maybe they'll have real autumn themed blankets. And a pumpkin candle. Maybe they'll have some kind of fresh air spicy thing. Crisp leaves.”

  
  


“Rain. Mist. Rain. Rain,” Arthur says, who got caught in the rain yesterday. Lance gives him a sympathetic smile and gets a grin back.

  
  


Shopping with Arthur is an experience. Bookshops and coffee shops are his Places. Bed and Home shops, not so much. He likes testing out the beds, bouncing on them and lying down and pulling Lance after him. It makes Lance flush, falling on top of Arthur, embarrassing him with their closeness and the suggestion of it. Arthur, hopped up on too much caffeine, cares not a bit about Lancelot's embarrassment. Lancelot escapes his reaching hands and makes decisively for the Home section of the store. Arthur follows, more well behaved away from the tempting beds. The blankets on display are not autumnal. Lance listlessly looks through, feeling the material, but nothing's the right touch. Nor the right colours.

  
  


“Hey, c'mere,” Arthur says, the other side of a display of towels.

  
  


Lancelot wanders over, only to have something stuck in his face. He jerks back, then sniffs, leaning back in. It's a candle, and it smells like pumpkin. Lance puts three in their basket, and sets about smelling all the others. He finds a nice cake smelling one, and a honey and vanilla one Arthur says is too cloying and sweet but Lance loves. There's also a really nice hazelnut one, but Lance decides to get it another time. They head for sheets next, which should be easy. Arthur chooses the kind of cotton, though, and doesn't find any he wants.

  
  


“I like these thick, brushed ones, for winter,” Arthur says. “Do you think it'll be cold this year?”

  
  


“Supposed to be. Both really hot, and really cold,” Lance says. “I'm sad about not finding blankets, Arthur.”

  
  


“Actually sad?”

  
  


“Yes.”

  
  


“Let's go to Dunelm.”

  
  


Dunelm is better than Dreams. Less beds, more blankets. Lance finds an orangey one, and a nice blue one for the bedroom, a red and purples one, and a fluffy syntheticy one with pumpkins on it. He looks at a very nice wool one, but Arthur doesn't look impressed so he gets another fluffy one with black cats. He gets one which is almost wool. It's softer and less scratchy, and Arthur can glare as much as he likes, Lance knows this will be his favourite. He adds a few more, too, just in case. They find the right sheets, too.

  
  


“Can we have a wander?” Arthur says, putting a few extra sheets in the trolley, for the spare room.

  
  


He takes Lance's arm, and they push their cart through the shop, adding little autumny things to decorate the flat. A cushion, a set of warm orange-red fairy lights. Lance gets caught up examining some really thick towels, and Arthur wanders off. He returns with Doritos, some chocolate, a set of mini-speakers (“for the car,  _ La-ance _ ”), and a DVD. Lance decides they  _ do _ need towels, and adds some orange ones.

  
  


“Orange everything,” Arthur says, making a face.

  
  


Lance switches the towels for a more muted reddish brown, which Arthur likes better. He gets distracted by the lights section, then, and wanders around a little hypnotised by the cascades of glass and lights, the colours, the different patterns. He decides to buy a giant lava lamp, then realises that's a bad idea and that his judgement is off. He gets a regular sized one instead and goes to find Arthur. He's in the children's section, looking at the little display of toys. He has a Sylvanian canal boat down off the shelf and is running his finger over the different sections on the box, the different animals in the picture, the colours. He's singing quietly to himself,  _ merrily merrily merrily merrily life is but a dream. _ Lance takes the boat and puts it back on the shelf, putting an arm around Arthur. Arthur turns into Lance's body and rests his head on Lance's shoulder, sighing.

  
  


“Mm?” Lance asks.

  
  


“Uh-huh,” Arthur says, putting his arms around Lance's waist. “Going home?”

  
  


“If you like,” Lance says.

  
  


He tucks Arthur into his side and heads for the tills, telling him quietly about the kittens Gwen's cat had. Arthur watches things going down the conveyor belt, watches Lance pack. When the final amount pops up on the display, Arthur shuffles to Lance's side again, eyes wide, reaching for his hand.

  
  


“That's a lot of money,” Arthur says.

  
  


“Yep. Can I have your wallet, please? You have the card for the household account,” Lance says.

  
  


Arthur gives it over and watches Lance pay.

  
  


“My money,” he says, sadly, when Lance gives his wallet back.

  
  


“You have oodles of the stuff,” Lance assures. “Can you carry this to the car?”

  
  


Arthur takes three really heavy bags, then puts them down and takes the two stuffed with blankets. Lance carries the heavy ones. Arthur revives a bit in the fresh air (autumn crisp, damp leaves smell) and when they've put stuff in the boot, he leans on the car, eyes on Lance.

  
  


“Better?” Lance asks. “It was warm in there. You went somewhere.”

  
  


“I was thinking about going on a canal boat. With a horse. Hauling coal. And then I saw that. I think Morgana used to have that set. With a tiny little oven that belonged in  _ my _ dollshouse,” Arthur says, then shakes his head, closing his eyes.

  
  


“We probably could go on a canal boat holiday, you know, if you really wanted to,” Lance says. “I wouldn't actually get seasick on a canal, you're right.”

  
  


“I know I'm right,” Arthur says, eyes opening, then he grins. “Coffee? Oh, let's go to Waitrose and get fancy things, and a coffee.”

  
  


“I bet they have pumpkin spiced things, and autumnal foods,” Lance says.

  
  


Arthur nods, eyes going distant again for a moment. Lance waits for him to come back, then pulls him in gently for another hug. Arthur sighs, rubbing his face on Lance's shoulder.

  
  


“Ugh,” Arthur says. “Just really ugh.”

  
  


“I have a great idea,” Lance says. “Go on, get in the car. Two secs.”

  
  


He gets out the blanket with the pumpkins and goes to tuck it around Arthur's knees. Arthur snorts and teases him, but he also bundles it up and rubs his cheek against its softness. Lance gives his knee a squeeze, when he's in the car. It takes a while to get to Waitrose, and Arthur slowly decompresses. He's sleepy by the time they reach Waitrose. He ambles along happily at Lance's side, putting things in the basket. They are things that Lance remembers liking as a child, things like yoghurt pockets and mini-cheeses and animal biscuits and pasta shaped like letter. Lance doesn't comment on that. He gets some squashes, some little chocolates shaped like ghosts, some autumnal browns and reds napkins, pumpkin spice coffee, and some chestnuts. Arthur boggles at the price of the chestnuts, then gets a sly look and goes and gets an expensive tub of ice cream. Lance doesn't make a comment.

  
  


“We should get some apples and make something,” Lance says. “Apple-y something.”

  
  


“Cake and apple sauce and pie and crumble and spicey juice,” Arthur says.

  
  


“All those things,” Lance agrees, linking their arms, pushing the trolley one handed.

  
  


They get four different sorts of apples. Arthur looks at their trolley, then starts to laugh, holding Lance's shoulder.

  
  


“What?” Lance asks.

  
  


“I'm gonna be working off your autumn obsession for weeks, babe,” Arthur says. “This is gonna cost a fortune.”

  
  


“We're using the household account, all that money comes from Uther. Most of it anyway,” Lance says.

  
  


“True. That's what I meant. Lunches, dinners, breakfasts. God, he'll be after me for brunch when he replenishes this,” Arthur says, laughing again.

  
  


“I'll go,” Lance says. “If I go without you a few times, he'll probably get confused and bumble off and bother Merlin instead.”

  
  


“Merlin can pay off your autumnal obsession. That's good,” Arthur says.

  
  


Arthur writes out a list of everything Lance has bought, over coffee and carrot cake. He laughs a lot, and names everything. 'Lance's daft lava thing'. 'Lance's blanket obsession: 8, Lance's reason: 0'. 'something pumpkin-y instance number 1'. 'Something pumpkin-y instance number 2'. 'SpyIN 3'. 'apple's.

  
  


“Hey, how come the things you chose get to be called normal things?” Lance says. “Apples, sheets, daft smelly candle, cloying candle. Arthur!”

  
  


Arthur smiles, and adds 'the thoughtfully switched brownish towels'. And 'Lance's Arthur-indulgent cheese purchase'. Lance steals a bite of Arthur's carrot cake and sits back, mollified.

  
  


“I like the mini-cheese,” Lance says. “Any excuse.”

  
  


Arthur smiles at him again, the soft, slightly sad one he gets sometimes. Lancelot looks away, Arthur's eyes are too revealing when he's like that. More revealing than Arthur likes. They walk back to the car hand in hand, Arthur laughing again at Lance's pumpkin stuff. Lance remains silent, because Arthur will like it all too, especially when they eat the mini-squashes, and carve the bigger ones.

  


***

  


BRUNCH IS A CUTE THING

  


“Ecstasy is a glass full of tea and a piece of sugar in the mouth,” Lance says, eyes shut, savouring the white tea on his tongue, clear and fresh and just the right temperature.

  


“What?” Uther snaps, irritable about his food not being Right Here Right Now.

  


“Sorry, it's Pushkin,” Lance says, winking at Arthur. “Poetry, you know.”

  


“Yes, I had forgotten you are a humanities graduate.”

  


“I teach English Literature, Dad,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “Lance does a much more reasonable job than me.”

  


“What do you do again?” Uther asks, not paying much attention, looking around for the waiter.

  


Lance waits, sipping his tea, spotting the waiter coming with their food. Uther brightens with the arrival, and Lance is left in peace to savour his tea for a while. Arthur rests a hand on his back for a moment, which usually indicates fondness. Lance looks over, and finds Arthur watching him. He tilts his head in question and a smile bursts over Arthur's face. Uther stops fussing at the waiter a moment, noticing it, and the waiter escapes.

  


“What is it you do, Lancelot?” Uther says, much more calmly and with more interest.

  


“I work in Dyslexia/SpLD service, part of Wellbeing,” Lance tells him, putting down the mug. “My job is basically to ensure course providers, from the university down to the teachers, are as accessible as they can be and that there are processes in place for students when that isn't enough.”

  


“Ah, yes, I remember. That's a key role, making sure things are available,” Uther says.

  


Lance nods and takes another sip of tea. Arthur relaxes as the moment for conflict passes, and when Lance puts down his mug, Arthur refills it from the pot. He's been watching Leverage and has been working on behavioural programming through little 'rewards' for things he likes Lance doing. He's clumsy and obvious about it but Lance likes the rewards so he pretends not to notice. He overheard Arthur telling Merlin how well it's working the other night, and Merlin amused and indulgent about it.

  


“This bacon, do you think they've done it with too much fat? Too much oil?” Uther asks.

  


Arthur sighs and leans over to have a look. Lance retreats behind his tea, and thinks about literary tea things. Tea and Ginger-Newts from Harry Potter and Professor McGonagall; and Miss Bates from Jane Austen chattering away about the importance of tea, not coffee, is it here? Will it come? There it is; and J Alfred Prufrock measuring his life, teaspoon by teaspoon. His mind’s wandering through ‘Asterix in Britain’, everyone stopping fighting so the Britons can have their cups of hot water, when Arthur gets his attention with a click of the tongue. 

  


“Mm?” Lance asks. “Do you remember in Asterix, where that guy’s like ‘maybe we should put leaves in our hot water’ and everyone scoffs at him?”

  


“What?” Arthur says, staring at him. “What hot water? No, I don’t remember that. Dad’s getting scones and jam and cream, do you want some?”

  


Lance looks down at his bagel and cream cheese, and across at Uther’s English Breakfast. Uther’s nearly done. Lance checks on Arthur’s jam and toast, and Arthur’s no closer to finishing than he is. He takes a bite of his bagel, and shrugs. If Uther’s getting scones, he might eat a scone. Arthur huffs, slightly irritated. Lancelot shakes himself out of his dreamy, languid state. Arthur hates it when he gets ‘so easy going you might as well be a feather on a breeze’. 

  


“I think I’ll stick with the bagel, thanks?” Lance tries.

  


“In a little while, in a little while,” Uther says, also a bit frustrated. Lance clearly hasn’t been paying enough attention to the Pendragon men. “Arthur and I were just thinking about it, the waitress went past with them for someone else.”

  


“They’re not really brunch food, but then, what is brunch?” Arthur says. 

  


“That sounds philosophical,” Lance says. “Is it temporal, perhaps? All dependant on the time it’s eaten? Or location- the place has to say ‘brunch served’, or some such? Or be a place associated with brunch. Maybe it’s all about the food, but then you could eat brunch at seven pm, which I think isn’t right.”

  


“I haven’t seen Morgana in a while, Dad. I think Merlin saw her when he went up to London to the theatre,” Arthur says, ignoring Lance’s food philosophy. 

  


Lance leaves them to it and considers writing an article about food in literature, the philosophy, culture and economics of it. He often uses meals with Uther to do such planning. Uther’s a great Dad, and loves his children, and does everything he can for them, but Lance finds him a little boring. He’s always talking about mutual acquaintances, with Arthur, or about new opportunities to make money. Uther’s done well for himself, his business makes a lot of money. Mostly without Uther’s input. Uther’s not any good at all at running things or making choices. He’s far too impatient, impetuous. Lance likes talking about books, philosophy, art. Uther likes talking about money, people he’s fond of (most of whom Lance does not know), and gardening, in conjunction with What Arthur’s been Eating. 

  


“Does he have to pick at our eating habits like that?” Lance asks, when Uther’s gone, and Arthur’s got them both another coffee to help digest the huge amount of food Uther provided.

  


“Food is a cultural thing, at home,” Arthur says. “It’s part of our relationship. I can ask him not to, if you like, but he’ll probably carry on.”

  


“It borders on personal comments,” Lance says, resting a hand on Arthur’s stomach. Arthur’s lips twitch in amusement. 

  


“Oh, no, it’s most definitely a personal comment. He’s telling me I’m getting fat. I am. I don’t think it’s an insult, though, more of a ‘are you aware of this, Arthur?’,” Arthur says, laughing. “As if I haven’t noticed with my trousers not fitting and all.”

  


“You’re not fat. Just not a skinny twig teenager anymore,” Lance grumbles. 

  


“I know,” Arthur says. “It’s just a thing.”

  


“You’re sure it doesn’t bother you? Because sometimes the things that are ‘just a thing’ with Uther bother you,” Lance says. 

  


“This one doesn’t,” Arthur says. “He’s a good guy.”

  


“Yes, I know. He is a good guy, a good father, loves you to bits, supports you, always has. But your childhood was fragmentary, you moved a lot, sometimes he’d have no money to clothe or feed you properly, you were evicted. It affected you. Is the way he uses and talks about food one of the things that’s like that, or is it one of the things like Christmas, where you all always had a warm safe place to sleep, and a gift and a good meal? Like your birthday, which he never forgot and always had a cake for? Like his supporting you getting help with dyslexia, like him getting you a therapist, like him, as soon as he started making proper money, setting up accounts for you and Morgana and splitting his pay?”

  


“The second kind,” Arthur says, looking at the table, flushing a little. He smiles. “It was always… it was a family meal, every evening, at six, for years. Until we were teenagers, when it was at seven. It was him taking care of us by showing us how to cook, teaching us which foods belonged to which groups, how to balance a meal. It was him taking us to the market, to the farm, to the allotment, all the ways our food came to us. It was him monitoring what stimulants I was ingesting- sugar, coffee, soda, chocolate, when it was setting off anxiety attacks. This is a good thing.”

  


“Then I don’t mind,” Lance says. “I shall put up with his comments about my shopping habits.”

  


Arthur laughs, and extracts a promise from Lancelot to accompany him and Uther to the farmers market Uther loves. It takes a week and a half for Arthur to collect on that promise, by which point it has somehow morphed into going to Uther’s allotment for an hour in the morning, then heading to the market. Lance is dragged from bed at seven am, on a Sunday, and bundled into old clothes, and wellies, and put in the car. At least Arthur chucks in the pumpkin blanket after him, so he can nap against the window. He falls completely asleep, and wakes up at nine, to a still car, sunshine, and no sign of Arthur. 

  


Lance gets out and wobbles, still sleepy, and looks around. He recognizes ‘allotment’, and with that information, he can locate Arthur in the stooped figure in the red jacket. Lance wanders over and discovers Arthur doing weeding, Uther digging over a bare patch of earth further down. Lance crouches by Arthur and looks at what he’s doing, the way his hands move confidently over plants identifying which to pull. 

  


“Dad’s giving us some fresh stuff,” Arthur says. 

  


“Nice,” Lance says. “What are you doing?”

  


“Weeding the leeks and onions,” Arthur says. “Do you want to help?”

  


“I’m willing to get stuck in,” Lance says, after considering the matter. 

  


Arthur shows him what the onions look like, what the weed that’s growing there most looks like, what to pull, where to put the weeds. Lance kneels and begins work, Arthur a few rows over doing the leeks. Arthur straightens, after a few moments, and looks over. Lance stops and looks up. 

  


“Good morning,” Arthur says, grinning. 

  


“Morning,” Lance says. 

  


They work for twenty minutes, weeding the entire bed. Lance has to grab Arthur a few times to check if something’s a weed. When they’re done, Arthur takes Lance down to the end, nearer where Uthere’s working, where there’s a shed and a small wooden decked bit with chairs. Lance sits, and Arthur crouches and pulls a cloth bag to himself, pulling things out. 

  


“We’re having some lettuce and cucumber, and runner beans,” Arthur says, showing Lance. “For salads. And some herbs, a bit of mint and fennel. And a few onions, little ones not the sort you were weeding. And, the best thing, some apples. Try one?”

  


Arthur holds one out for Lance to take. It’s sweet, crisp, the red of the skin bleeding pink into the white of the flesh. It’s beautiful. Lance takes a picture of it and his muddy wellies and puts it on instagram with the comment ‘breakfast on the allotment’. Arthur gets the update and sits on the other chair to look, his own apple between his teeth, his bag re-packed. He snorts, and rummages in the backpack he brought from the car, coming up with a flask of coffee, and an egg and bacon sandwich, kept warmish up against the thermos. He hands Lance a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

  


Lance’s phone pings, when he’s done with breakfast, and when he checks it’s an instagram post on Arthur’s instagram, Lance tagged. It’s a picture of Lance, mouth open wide to get around his sandwich, with the comment ‘less aesthetic, more reality’. Lance throws his apple core at Arthur’s head, and takes a photo of the allotment, the sunshine, the flourishing plants, and puts it on instagram. It’s not so much a retaliation as a restoration of idyllic aesthetic. Lancelot likes his instagram to be aesthetically pleasing, he doesn’t care about reality. What really is real, anyway? Who’s to say that his dreamy, pretty way of things isn’t the real ‘real’?

  


“Are you coming up with a defence against my sandwich post in your head, babe?” Arthur asks, leaning over to look at Lance’s tags. “Not just aesthetic, real England, beautiful nature. Your tags need work.”

  


Lance blushes and, flustered, posts the photo and stows his phone in his pocket. Arthur’s teasing has a slight edge to it, this morning, and Lance isn’t good at reacting to it. Merlin’s great at it, he just nudges and mocks in return, and it’s all sharp banter and cleverness. Lance just flushes and flaps. Arthur reaches over and gives the back of his neck an apologetic squeeze, gentling himself a little, and Lance grimaces in apology. Uther comes over, interupting. 

  


“Any coffee left?” he asks, going into the shed to put away his spade, coming out with another folded chair. 

  


The market is busy, by the time they arrive. Arthur links his hand with Lance’s and holds Uther’s elbow. It’s so he doesn’t lose either of them, but the effect is that he drags them to every stall and makes them examine everything. There are so many vegetables and fruit and mud and ‘organic’, ‘local’, labels. It’s great, and Lance has a nice chat with the man on the stall selling eggs and apples and mushrooms about local produce and ethical farming, while Arthur munches one of the apples and tells Uther about something or other. 

  


The book stall is the best. None of the books are particularly old or special, but the unexpected opportunity to browse through things it always thrilling. There’s literature and criticism and history, and all kinds of things that look like university cast offs, academic detritus. There’s a David Crystal book on Shakespeareian linguistics, which Lance gets to put on his shelf at work. He buys Arthur a copy of The Hobbit, because he spilt coffee on the one they’ve got. Arthur sorts through the childrens’ books, passing them up to Uther for approval before picking out three for Morgana and Gwen’s three year old daughter. 

  


“I don’t think buying books makes you a cool uncle,” Arthur says, holding Lance’s hand and Uther’s elbow again, leading them on. “But it definitely puts me in Morgana’s good graces.”

  


“That’s the best place to be,” Uther says. “I try my best not to get on her bad side. Have you ever seen my daughter in a temper, Lancelot?”

  


“Yep,” Lance says, grinning. It had been anger aimed at Merlin, most recently, so he and Arthur had, essentially, got popcorn and watched the show. 

  


“Yes,” Uther says. “Look, this guy does a really good cut of meat, and it’s all ethical and local, organic. The animals are cared for and have happy lives, the meat is good and healthy.”

  


“Get us some bacon, Lance?” Arthur says, heading for the bench instead, setting Lance loose to brave the crowd around the stall alone. 

  


Lance does as he’s told, and then goes to the next stall for doughnuts before joining Uther and Arthur. He gives Arthur the custard doughnut, keeps the apple-cinnamon ring for himself, and offers Uther the choice of ‘baked pumpkin spiced’ or ‘gingerbread and chai spiced’. Uther gives the bag a disgusted look, and goes to get himself a croissant. Lance eats his own, and the other two. 

  


“Autumn doughnuts. Fantastic,” he says, licking sugar off his fingers, his wrist, and his knuckles. Arthur gives him a tissue dampened from a water bottle. “Thanks.”

  


“Can we invite my Dad back to the flat for brunch? I’ll make a spinach omlete and some salad with all this stuff, and we can have juice, coffee, tea?”

  


“Bribing me with tea,” Lance grumbles. 

  


“There’s a tea stall here, we could find something nice to take home,” Arthur wheedles. 

  


“I was always going to say yes. I’m happy for Uther to come back with us,” Lance says. 

  


“Good to hear. Why am I coming back with you?” Uther asks, striding over. 

  


Arthur bounces to his feet and explains the plan, then attaches himself to them both again and goes in search of the tea stall. Lance buys a nice loose-leaf White Chai mix, made up by the company. He gets a lecture from Uther about how ‘Chai’ just means ‘tea’, but he zones it out and buys a rooibos, too, which he thinks Arthur will like. It’s got no caffeine in and Arthur hasn’t been sleeping fantastically. Lance has a half-formed plan to suggests Arthur substitutes coffee for rooibos tea, if he likes it.

  


"If we went on a canal boat, we could do this every day. Lazing on the desk, or whatever you call it, tea, sun," Arthur says. 

  


"Mm," Lance says, smiling. Arthur much prefers the canal boat holiday to be theoretical than actual. "That would be nice. Tea and sun, lying around, cruising gently up the locks."

  


"Morgana had a Sylvanians narrow boat, when you were both little," Uther says. 

  


Lance finds Uther easier to talk to, over this brunch. He engages with Lance about the ethics of food, and the culture of supermarkets. Arthur sits quietly, relaxed, looking a little tired but happy. They have fruit (apples, grapes, blackberries from the garden, pears, plums), salad bits (sugar snap peas, cucumber, carrot sticks, pepper), fresh-squeezed juice. Arthur didn’t bother with an omelette, but Lance has his white chai, and Arthur’s got a mug of the rooibos. Uther’s drinking black coffee, as always. It’s pleasant, the table in the bay window catching the sun, everyone in a good mood, mugs warm in their hands, Pumpkin Spice candle making the house smell clean and good. 

  


***

  


HOME

  


Lancelot waits until Arthur’s finished for the day. His last lecture ends at six, and Lance finishes at four thirty, so it’s a bit of a wait. He sits in the chaplaincy with a mug of rooibos tea from the tea point, and a copy of Good Omens from his office. Arthur comes in about half six, a bit flustered, pink cheeked. 

  


“It’s windy as fuck out there!” Arthur says, voice high with exhilaration. “Oh shit I’m still at work, no swearing you pranny!”

  


“Are you ready to go?” Lance asks. 

  


“Yes, why? Are you cross?” Arthur asks, grinning, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I thought you’d just get the bus home if you got bored of waiting. I haven’t got the car, by the way, so we are getting the bus. Or walking.”

  


“Walking,” Lance says, shutting his book. 

  


He dumps his mug in the sink and goes to get his bag from the office. The walk home is nice. It’s through the park. It’s a student route, but it’s not too bad this late. Arthur sings, holding Lance’s hand, and points out squirrels. Lance likes the wind, it feels good. Really really good. He stops by a downed tree, thick trunk, waving arms, helpless. He tilts his head and lets the wind buffet him, buffet Arthur away, until he’s alone. Just him in the sea of the wind. 

  


“Babe, come on, it’s cold,” Arthur says, soft and low. 

  


Once he’s spoken, he wraps an arm around Lancelot’s waist. He wraps a scarf around Lancelot’s neck. He guides Lancelot back to the path. Lance stumbles, breath catching, but Arthur steadies him and his breathing steadies with it, his eyes opening. A teenager goes careening by laughing, followed by two others at a more sedate pace but walking faster than the pace Arthur set. 

  


“Oh, goodnight, Arthur!” One of them calls, twisting to wave, and then, to their friend, too loud, “that’s his husband, he works at uni too, aren’t they the cutest? Arthur was wearing that scarf earlier.”

  


“Relationship goals,” their friend says. 

  


“We’re upwind of them,” Arthur murmurs, laughing, close to Lance’s ear. “She’s one of the loud ones, in class, too. Very carrying voice.”

  


Lance just nods. They live quite close to the accommodation, but not close enough to either be bothered or to be part of that melé. Up beside the playground, near the Marston road campus, up the hill. Lancelot stop, breathless. 

  


“Funny thing happened today,” Arthur says, stopping with him, leaning on the wall and pulling Lance against him, away from the wind somehow. “I walked into the lecture hall, tripped over, swept a coffee and a cup of water off a desk, and nearly hit a student. I saved myself a face-plant. It was really really graceful.”

  


Lance huffs, too tired to properly laugh. Arthur giggles, pressing into Lance’s hair. They carry on, round the corner, to their block of flats. Arthur’s red Ford, Lance’s bike, the shed, the door. The lift. Lance elbows Arthur, because they’re only second floor and should take the stairs. The lift makes Arthur giggle again. He nudges Lance. 

  


“What?” Lance mutters. 

  


“My hair, that wind, look,” Arthur says, ducking into Lance’s sightline. 

  


It’s a bit… Lance blinks. Arthur looks like he’s been through a hedge, and a wind tunnel, and possible a static electricity farm or something. His hair’s just everywhere. Straight bits, curly bit, frizzing and staring and tangling. Lance reaches out, tears welling in his eyes. 

  


“Babe,” Arthur says, running a hand through his hair hurriedly. “It’s  _ funny _ .”

  


“Home,” Lancelot says. “God, please.”

  


Arthur guides him again, right to the sofa. He collapses, and finally cries. Arthur wraps him in all the blankets, and lights all the candles, and then hovers. Lance gets an arm free and holds it out, and gets Arthur, all around him, the soft blankets encompassing them both, holding them together. Arthur’s chest presses to Lancelot’s tear-spilt face, smudging wet between them. 

  


“What the actual fuck?” Arthur mutters, rubbing Lance’s back. “You alright there? Usually it’s me losing my shit at work.”

  


“I’m not at work,” Lancelot says, sniffing, another cascade of tears breaking. “Shit.”

  


“I don’t mind you leaking all over me,” Arthur says. “Probably best to just relax. You know, I haven’t seen you this unhappy since Gwen chose Morgana.”

  


Lancelot shudders, and is as surprised as Arthur when it’s laughter and not more grief that’s doing the shuddering. He feels so disconnected from his body. 

  


“I think I’m gonna let my students watch a film tomorrow. I know it’s uni, but everyone has a cold, and as much as we’ve got work to do, maybe a self care day would be a better idea. Teach them how to unspool in a healthy way, hmm?” 

  


Lancelot closes his eyes and listens to Arthur trying to shift his schedule about so he has time for a non-lesson while still fitting in the entire syllabus. In the end he decides to offer it as an option, with an extra class to make up. He’ll sell it as extra reading time. 

  


“I think I’m getting their cold,” Arthur grumbles, when he has that straight in his head. “I’ve been coughing all day, when I lecture. And my nose is runny. Which is a long way of saying let me up I need tissues five minutes ago. Oh, and so do you. Gross.”

  


Lancelot realises he’s holding on. He lets go. Arthur floats, floats, floats away, then drifts back. Like a feather. Settling back against Lancelot. 

  


“I blew out some candles, it looked like the house was gonna burn down,” Arthur says. “And put dinner on. Freezer curry from Iceland, woo.”

  


He doesn’t try to get Lance to blow his nose, which is nice. He obviously doesn’t mind having tears and snot on him. Lance is pretty much done crying. Arthur coughs, swallows, coughs again. Sniffs. 

  


“See? Cold,” Arthur says. 

  


“I had a trans student in today. No, I didn’t, one of the mentors did. She wanted to die, and the mentor came and got me, because the student said it would be nice to talk to someone who knew, and there I was, in residence, their own little example to pull out at will. I never agreed to that,” Lancelot says. “I don’t want to deal with teenage dysphoria, dysmorphia, depression, suicidal ideation. Week eight stress. God, she very much wanted to die.”

  


Arthur’s silent for a minute, then he sucks in a breath and sits up, arms wrapping around himself. Lance sits up with him and wraps around him. 

  


“Oops. Sorry,” Lance says. 

  


“Bit of warning, next time,” Arthur croaks. “Did you ever…?”

  


“No,” Lance says, into Arthur’s neck. 

  


“Mm. What happened?”

  


“We talked, for half an hour, and then I gave them numbers and told the mentor to refer them to the emergency care team at the Warnford, gave them numbers, stuff like that.”

  


“You didn’t give them our space?”

  


“No. I never do. If students turn up there, fine, we absent ourselves, but I don’t go  _ telling  _ them about it. I’m really pissed off that work did that to me, though. I want to help, I do, but not that way,” Lance says. 

  


“Yeah, that wasn’t fair.”

  


“So now there’s that conversation to have,” Lance says, sighing. Arthur sneezes. 

  


“Oh! Huh, I-” Arthur sneezes again. “Oh!”

  


“Bless you,” Lance says, laughing. “Didn’t expect those?”

  


“No,” Arthur says. “I haven’t been sneezing. I didn’t  _ actually  _ think I had a cold.”

  


“That’s what happens when you grumble,” Lance says. 

  


“Are you feeling better?”

  


“Yeah. Thank you.”

  


“Mm. I’ll go get dinner, put the TV on. Put our feet up, bit of a cuddle?”

  


Lance nods, and lets Arthur up. He breathes deeply, and smells honey and vanilla. He hasn’t lit that candle yet, knowing Arthur wasn’t keen. It’s comforting, though. There’s the brown and red blanket around him, and the one with black cats. Not all the blankets, afterall. 

  


“Lewis?” Arthur asks, sitting back with, passing Lance a plate of rice, curry, broccoli and paneer spicy thing that Arthur likes to make. 

  


“‘kay.” 

  


Lance tucks up his knee, leans against Arthur’s shoulder. The food helps, Arthur helps, the blankets help, the candle helps. The bowl of fruit they have afterwards, late strawberries and blackberries from the allotment, also help. When the Lewis episode is over, they go through to the bedroom, and Arthur reads him Good Omens, from where he got to, in an increasingly nasal and hoarse voice. Lance listens, until he’s sure he’s completely okay. Then he sits up and gently takes the book, kissing Arthur’s cheek. 

  


“Alright, darling,” Lance says, stroking Arthur’s hair. “Thank you. Lie down, you sound terrible.”

  


“Thanks a bunch,” Arthur grumbles. 

  


He lies down, though, and Lance finishes off the chapter out loud, sending him off to snoring sleep. He reads to himself for a while, the bedside lamp on, Arthur warm against his hip, comforting. Familiar. The red and purple blanket gets over them somehow, in the night, and when Lance wakes up, it’s to Arthur getting ready quietly. He sits up, yawning. 

  


“Shh, go back to sleep, I called you in sick,” Arthur says. “I told them you’ll be off till Monday.”

  


“It’s Thursday,” Lance says, still sleepy. “That’s a lot of days off.”

  


“It’s two, which you need and deserve. You can relax, take time, and on Monday you can chop their bollocks off in a nice calm way.”

  


“They were only trying to help.”

  


“Don’t care. Fuck ‘em. You help all the time in all the ways, that one- are you even officially ‘out’ at work? Or is it just something people know?”

  


Lance doesn’t answer. Arthur comes and sits on the bed, his shirt still undone. Lance does the buttons for him, and ties his tie. Arthur lets him, but doesn’t let Lance kiss him. 

  


“I have a cold, remember?” Arthur says, patting Lance’s cheek. “I’ll see you later. You could make dinner, that’d be nice.”

  


“I’ll do you something comforting and warm, easy on your throat. Are you in a hurry, now?”

  


“No, got a bit, why?”

  


“I’ll do you lemon and honey in your flask. You’re voice is gonna go.”

  


Lance pads around in his pyjamas, making the lemon and honey. Arthur eats breakfast, does his teeth, finishes doing his lunch for the day, and packs up all his stuff into his suitcase. Lance adds the flask, and pulls Arthur down to kiss his hair. Then he sees Arthur off. 

  


It’s nice, not to have to worry about work. It’s also a bit weird, and he’s at a loose end. He decides to be indulgent, and sits down in front of the TV, wrapped in a blanket, with a candle. He then gets up to find one of Arthur’s woolly jumpers, before snuggling in and putting on Grantchester. He does a bit of cleaning, a bit of reading, watches a lot of TV, texts Arthur most of the afternoon (Arthur gives a running commentary of how his cold is going, which is mostly updates with more and more snot, and less and less voice). He does a chili for dinner, thick and warm but not too spicey. With some bread, and ice cream for desert, he thinks it’ll be enough for Arthur tonight. He pops out on the bike to get the ice cream, and gets cold and flu pills, and some lozenges, tissues, as well. 

  


“Where’ve you been?” Arthur asks, when Lance gets back. “I left early, but you weren’t here to cuddle with. I cancelled a tutorial and everything.”

  


“Popped out for supplies,” Lance says, gathering him into a one armed hug. “You said you were all kinds of things, so I got remedies to those things. Snot, sore throat, and headache.”

  


Lance hands over tissues and pills, and shows Arthur the ice cream. Arthur nods, resting his head on Lance’s shoulder, clutching the tissues to his chest. 

  


“Just want dinner, and bed,” Arthur says. 

  


His voice is a croak, and thick with congestion. He coughs, as Lance is about to go get him something to eat, and it sounds rough and rattling. 

  


“No work for you tomorrow, either, I think,” Lance says. 

  


“We did a self-care day in my class today,” Arthur says. “About looking after yourself when ill, allowing breaks, getting good food, that sort of thing. Watched a film. Talked about comfort-reading and what books we all like. Lord of the Rings came up. So did Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter, Jane Eyre for some reason. Who finds Jane Eyre comforting? Apparently it’s hopeful and romantic.”

  


Lance pushes Arthur onto the sofa and gets dinner. He doesn’t light candles, it’ll probably make Arthur sneeze, with the cold. He sits, his dinner on his knees, and then has to take a deep breath and close his eyes a moment. 

  


“This is lovely,” Arthur mumbles, around a mouthful of chili, tissues over his face. “Thanks.”

  


“Yeah,” Lance says. 

  


“Need a minute?”

  


“Yeah.”

  


Arthur eats quietly, for a while, but then happy noises start sneaking out, sniffs and coughs, and then ‘yum’. Lance laughs, sitting back and relaxing, taking a bite of his own dinner. Arthur grins at him. 

  


“It’s good,” he defends. His bowl is empty. 

  


“There’s more,” Lance says. 

  


Arthur shakes his head, though, and puts his bowl on the table, curling up against Lance, with the tissues. 

  


“Let me finish,” Lance says. “Then, cuddles and comfort. Reading or TV? I don’t mind reading the Lord of the Rings to you.”

  


“Nah. Morse? Haven’t seen all of those. We can make up queer headcannons, and you can write fanfic.”

  


“Mm. I don’t ship him with anyone.”

  


“Except Oxford.”

  


“Except Oxford. I might write wistful queer Endeavour fic, which winds it’s way to happy queer Morse fic.”

  


“Sounds lovely.”

  


“I’ll write you a nice fic about Tara and Willow, too,” Lance says, holding Arthur close, putting his feet up. 

  


“Romantic one,” Arthur says. “You’re always so romanticy in fic.”

  


“Not in real life?”

  


“That too,” Arthur says, coughing a little. “Go on, I know you’re thinking about poetry. Go on, I’m weak, an audience that can’t escape.”

  


_ “someone asked me what home was _

_ and all i could think of were the stars _

_ on the tip _

_ of your tongue. _

_ the flowers sprouting from your mouth _

_ the roots _

_ entwined _

_ in the gaps _

_ between your fingers _

_ the ocean echoing _

_ inside of your _

_ ribcage.” _

  


**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens covers from: http://www.neilgaiman.com/Neil's_Work/International_Covers
> 
> title from the iron and wine version of Wild Horses (that specific version, because that's what's on the playlist I listen to)
> 
> the poem at the end is e e cummings


End file.
